


For Your Pleasure

by Himboskywalker



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Coming Untouched, Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Consensual Spanking, Public Humiliation, Situational Humiliation, Spanking, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24617392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himboskywalker/pseuds/Himboskywalker
Summary: Undercover as slaver and slave,Obi-Wan and Anakin infiltrate a slaver's ring,only for Anakin's training and ability to take punishment to come into question.“I want you,” D’thrin said, slow and careful, voice full of nothing but conversational menace, “to lay that pretty boy over your lap and beat him with all of your strength. I want to see how long your products can truly take pain. I want to see how well behaved he is before he breaks and begs for you to stop. My clients are of the cruelest kind, my friend, and no matter how it offends your Lord I want to see how sturdy his stock before I send them to owners that take no greater pleasure than breaking them.”
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 43
Kudos: 546





	For Your Pleasure

**Author's Note:**

> Please make sure you read the tags for this one.The dubcon is the spanking and the situation,not Anakin's consent towards Obi-Wan.

No humiliation, past or future, would ever live up to this. He burned with it, there on his knees, chin tucked low to his chest, eyes cast to the ground.

Obi-Wan sat in his chair beside him, straight backed and stiff and walled off in the force, boots planted firm and wide on the durasteel grated floor. He sat with his arms tucked into the opposite sleeves of his robe, chin raised high and eyes sharp and cool. Even out of the corner of his eye, while he kept his line of sight low and on the grating under him, with warm air filtering through the crisscrossed bars, he could see that Obi-Wan looked pissed.

It was some modicum of reassurance that he knew Obi-Wan’s eyes were narrowed, not at him and his humiliating knelt stance on the floor beside his chair, but at the obscenely muscled Devaronian sitting in a wide legged splay across from them. He smirked around sharp teeth and stroked one of his horns in some facsimile of a Holodrama villain. Admittedly, the sight carried its weight with the female Twi’lek kneeling at his feet in a mirrored position of Anakin’s, eyes low on the ground. She wore nothing but a scrap of shimmersilk masquerading as some form of underwear and a pair of durasteel wrist restraints, lekku and breasts hanging free and unharnessed.

Masquerading as slavers from Tatooine, tied with the powerful and illustrious Hutts, here by their supposed beckoning even, at least lent Anakin the small mercy of wearing a loosely belted tunic and pants. Tatooine slavers dealt mostly with workers, skilled laborers for the moisture farms, mechanics, useful creatures. Only the Hutts and their favorites had the power and credits for pleasure slaves, for pretty things like the Twi’lek woman bound and naked in front of him.

There were others besides the Twi’lek too, other members of this spaceport-based slaver’s ring. They called themselves Ambuscade and had risen hard and fast in the intergalactic ranking of black-market dealers, mob families and cartels. They had risen so prominently and with such acclaim, in fact, that even the Hutts were rumored to be taking an interest in their goods. The other members of Ambuscade, an eclectic group of Devaronians, Chagrians, Clawdites, Klatooinians and humans alike, packed the cargo bay in a tight circle. What they did all have in common, were the barely dressed slaves all kneeling at their feet, wrists bound behind their backs and eyes lowered to the ship’s grated floor.

It made him feel incandescent with rage, barely contained and leaking from him in waves there where he knelt on the grating. Obi-Wan was closed off in the force for a very good reason after all, and it had everything to do with the blazing anger and fury Anakin oozed from his every pore. Obi-Wan hadn’t wanted him to join him on this mission, didn’t trust him to remain impartial enough in the face of slavers to act the diligent part of slave without karking it all up. His hair may have been just grown below his ears, only a few months past his knighting, but a knight he still was, and one with the fluency in Huttese they needed for undercover work such as this.

But despite his admitted lack of control and patience and despite Obi-Wan’s love for chastisement, he could control himself for this. To break cover, to give into the rage against the crowd around them like he had with the Tusken Raiders when they took his mother, would condemn all of the kneeled slaves around him to death. Both of them might have worn their lightsabers strapped hidden under their tunics, but even an entire slaver’s ring, who all wore multiple blasters at their hips, might be less than wise for them to take on.

He needed to act his diligent part to get them all through this. Despite his fury, watching the naked Twi’lek in front of him kept it honed and tight, focused on their objective.

“Mmm—” the Devaronian grunted, who went by D’thrin in these circles. “We are all honored here to have caught the eye of the noble Hutts, but you see my friend, we may have a little problem.”

Obi-Wan did not stiffen physically, but Anakin felt it in the force all the same, drawn tight and dangerous. He was angry, Anakin knew this. He didn’t act it, and his former master always kept far better control of himself than he could ever dream, but the naked Twi’leks bound around them made him angry too, seething with it in fact.

“And what would that be, pateesa?” Obi-Wan asked.

D’thrin spread his hands amiably. “The great Hutts do us as honor offering their goods in trade, but Ambuscade has no need for workers and drudges. We deal in pleasure slaves, friend. Our clients like them well trained and pretty.”

Anakin gritted his teeth with such strength his jaw ached from it, muscles twinging even through his whited-out haze of anger.

“Ahh, it seems you have misunderstood me then. My great and venerated Lord has long profited from the market of workers in the Outer Rim, but the Hutts are looking to expand their business. Your business and associates have made quite the name for yourselves marketing your beautiful…goods. I have certainly come to discuss an exchange of beautiful things…not drudges.”

How smooth he sounded, how cruel and self-assured and polished. It might have made Anakin’s stomach turn, how easily the words slipped from his mouth, but he felt Obi-Wan’s disgust, felt the revulsion he could not completely stopper from leaking into the remnants of their training bond that still held on by cobwebbed tatters.

D’thrin looked surprised, ridges of his browbone rising faintly under the indentions of his horns. “We are in the need of finding new suppliers, obtaining new goods, my friend. Our business has no trouble with the plentitude of our customers, though of course you may tell your Lord that we may find and provide whatever pretty creature that catches his eye.”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and gestured to Anakin kneeling beside him. “You misunderstood me. It is my great and venerated Lord who wishes to sell to you. There are many a pretty thing within the realms of his control, and an unfortunate lack of individuals with the proper credits and appreciation for such goods.”

D’thrin threw his head back and boomed out a laugh so thunderous it shook the grating under Anakin’s aching knees. He gritted his teeth against it and kept his eyes planted firm and low.

“Oh my friend—forgive me—but if that is a pleasure slave, it is the worst trained one I have ever seen. What kind of bantha product is the Hutts trying to sell us?”

“I assure you this is some of the best my great and venerated Lord has to offer your circle. He is considered quite striking amongst his kind.”

“Ahh—” D’thrin laughed and stood from his seat, his incredible weight making the grates judder beneath them, and stepped forward to lift Anakin’s face by a red finger pressed underneath his chin. “But my friend, there are many a pretty thing in this galaxy, those are not in short supply. It is the pliant and well-trained ones we are after. My clients want a pretty thing that can suck cock like they were born for it,” he said smirking while looking Anakin in the eye.

It took every iota of his training to keep his expression vacant and clear as he looked up into that red face, letting D’thrin tilt his head from side to side as he examined him like an animal.

“I assure you,” Obi-Wan said, durasteel threading icy through his tone, “that he is very well trained.”

D’thrin raised his browbone down at Anakin. “Let me hear your voice, pretty thing.”

Anakin swallowed around a mouthful of dust and opened his lips against the firm hold the Devaronian gripped on his chin and jaw.

“Kava kavaa sava uba?”

D’thrin made a dismissive noise and released his jaw to settle back in his seat. “Does he speak basic?” he asked Obi-Wan.

“All of our products do, this one has simply been trained to respond in Huttese first, he is a special favorite of my great and venerated Lord.”

D’thrin couldn’t hide his vaguely disgusted expression at that. “Well trained he must be then. Show me.”

“Pardon,” Obi-Wan said, in a voice that meant nothing of the kind.

D’thrin hummed and put one of his gigantic hands on the Twi’lek’s head kneeling beside him. She instantly drooped forward, folding her abdomen between the splayed line of her legs to press her forehead against the cold durasteel grating.

“I want you to show me how good his training is,” D’thrin said, all friendliness underlit by a dark storm of danger and violence. “If he is truly your Lord’s favorite, I want to see why. How well can he take a punishment?”

“He is too well trained to need punishment,” Obi-Wan said sharply.

Anakin realized, staring at the floor, that he was beginning to shake, like the fine tremors before an earthquake. He remembered well what punishment meant, remembered going hungry and so thirsty he wished to die from it. Watto hadn’t liked beating his slaves, it slowed down their work, ultimately lowered their value if he wished to resale them. But the sleemo never failed in creativity for punishment in other ways, slower, more torturous than any physical kind of pain.

“Any pleasure slave can suck cock,” said D’thrin. Their tightly packed circle of onlookers all laughed, snapping Anakin’s awareness outward, remembering that more than the Devaronian and his master existed in the dim lighting of the ship’s cargo hull.

“And yours has such a lovely mouth I’m sure he does wonders at it. But my type of clients want more than a pretty mouth, they want their little things to take pain well, when they use them roughly, they want them to mind well and learn well when they are disciplined.” He leaned forward in his seat and leveled a dangerous look in Obi-Wan’s direction. “I want you to show me how well he can take punishment. If he is truly your Lord’s favorite, then he should accept a beating with no issue.”

Anakin’s knees shook harder and he dug his fists against the tops of his thighs to stem their quivering, even his prosthesis quaked from the nerves relayed by his brain. He didn’t know, despite his prior confidence of control, of making it through this for the slaves knelt around them at their owner’s feet, if he could take being beat by his master.

Obi-Wan meant—everything to him, had been the gravitational center of his life since he shook his hand on the dustball he escaped from at nine. He was more than master, more than father or brother or friend. He was what they called on Tatooine _baroota_ , beloved. He had endured many horrible things in his life, but he did not think he could endure being beat by his master.

“You want me to beat my great and venerated Lord’s prized pet when he has done nothing to deserve it?” Obi-Wan said flatly.

“I want you,” D’thrin said, slow and careful, voice full of nothing but conversational menace, “to lay that pretty boy over your lap and beat him with all of your strength. I want to see how long your products can truly take pain. I want to see how well behaved he is before he breaks and begs for you to stop. My clients are of the cruelest kind, my friend, and no matter how it offends your Lord I want to see how sturdy his stock before I send them to owners that take no greater pleasure than breaking them.”

Anakin shuddered and screwed his eyes shut, clenching his jaw against the horror of what he knew to come washing over him like a trickle of ice water down his spine. The hull rang with silence for a moment, only the far away sounds of the outer space station barely leaked through the thick layers of the ship to whisper of an outside world in the hull.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and then said, quiet but firm, “Anakin, come.”

Only the knowledge that if they were to draw their lightsabers, every slave in the hull would die, gave him the strength to rise from his knees and shakily bend himself over Obi-Wan’s lap. They settled like that for a moment, attempting to find a balance for Anakin to settle against in this upside down, tilted around moment. It didn’t feel real, plainly, and he wondered from far away, how they would ever look each other in the eye after this.

Obi-Wan spread his knees and shifted lower in his seat to give Anakin more room in his lap, he was far too large for this after all, to ever splay across his master’s lap. The thought struck him as hysterical and he bit against a panicked laugh as he braced his hips against one knee and his ribs against the other, digging his arched feet against the ground for stability as he hung his chest, his shoulders and head over his master’s other side, hands planted flat against the grating for want of anywhere else to put them. He felt like a cheap Holofilm, the ones the troopers talked about when they thought he couldn’t hear.

Obi-Wan gentled a hand against the small of his back but it did nothing like reassure him in the way his master meant, he only stiffened further, his back ramrod straight in apprehension and preparation of the pain he knew to come.

In all the years of his many shamed fantasies, in all the mortifying scenarios he imagined Obi-Wan’s hands on his ass, none of them had certainly ever conceived up a scenario like this.

“On second thought,” said D’thrin, “you should pull his pants down as well, wouldn’t want the fabric to muffle the pain.”

Anakin, already stiff as a board, froze harder than a durasteel bar as he stared at the space between his hands, feeling as if he’d already been hit. His face went scarlet and hot and he choked on bile that burned up the back of his throat like acid. The thought of his master—of Obi-Wan pulling down his pants to see his bare ass propped up on his lap—force but how he burned with the deepest and hottest shame imaginable.

Sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat, in the crooks of his elbows and against the backs of his knees. He felt feverish, paralyzed, and then, as if he weren’t breaking apart Anakin’s entire life by doing so, Obi-Wan gently dug his fingers under the waistband of his pants and yanked them down just to the fat of his thighs. The cargo bay air felt frigid against his heated skin, and he pressed his forehead against the inside of his left forearm and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from outright sobbing from soul moving mortification.

The world went still. Even the force around him seemed to gather and hold its breath, going strangely unmoving and silent in anticipation, and then Obi-Wan shifted, his center of gravity rolling to anchor in his hips and he brought his flat palm down hard against the meat of his right ass cheek. His eyes flew open and he jolted, more from the shock of it, despite being laid out across his master’s lap with his pants pulled down. It hurt, it did, but not nearly as bad as he feared, not nearly as bad as other battle wounds he’d experienced and lived through.

But then Obi-Wan’s muscles bunched and Anakin felt his core go taught with the way he clenched up as he brought his entire arm down, brought his hand down against Anakin’s skin. He jolted forward against Obi-Wan’s knees and grimaced, it fucking _hurt._

More sweat gathered at his hairline, and at the small of his back where Obi-Wan held his opposite hand just where his tunic rucked up and his pants were yanked down to take the brunt of his beating. He knew he should be able to feel the others in the ship’s hull, should be able to feel them in the force, their vitality and life, hear their breathing and the shifting of their slight movements at the very least. But all he could hear was the drumbeat of his own pule in his ears and the shaky sound of his own breathing, caught sticky and bordering panicked in the back of his throat.

Obi-Wan brought down his hand again—and again, with such strength it drove his hips forward across his knee, so that the highest points of his thighs dug into his master’s kneecap and his hips hung in the space between his legs. He shifted his hands further apart and hooked his fingertips through the grating to latch onto the durasteel for some anchoring point.

It burned and ached, and he buried his face into the sleeve of his tunic to finally let tears leak from the corners of his eyes. His face burned to, every inch of him throbbed like a hot coal, florid and throbbing and hurt. He swallowed down the achy tightness in his throat and let himself pant open mouthed against the rough linen sleeve, let the salt of his tears soak into the fabric and cool his flaming cheeks.

His master brought his hand against his ass again—and again and he jolted forward from the strength of every hit, rocked between the open space of his knees. It didn’t matter how desperately he clawed at the grated floor, how much he jerked his legs back up so that his boots dug toes down so that his naked cock hanging between his hips and his master’s open thighs didn’t drag painfully across his master’s knee with every harsh rock across bone.

The loud crack of skin meeting skin filled the hull and his entire body thrummed, as if spun round and round by g-force and then flung to his own devices, buzzing and electric with the aftershocks. Inside him his heart still slammed against his chest, with such strength surely Obi-Wan could feel the thud of it where he draped across his leg. The humiliation still burned hot like anthracite fuel, but it lessened as his master continued to bring his hand down against him, overtaken by a staticky blankness that dried his tears and made his shoulders drop, relaxing into the hitting pain instead of resisting it.

“Hit him faster,” said D’thrin, his voice utterly jarring against the silence which had filled the hull.

Obi-Wan went somehow stiffer under Anakin’s bent frame but he obediently brought his hand down in rapid succession, one hit after the other, so quickly he had no time to take fortifying breaths when the air was driven from his lungs by it. He gasped out silently, panting wide and open mouthed to the floor, eyes going round and disbelieving.

He burned and burned and burned—and then felt himself go numb to the pain. He could still feel how reddened and hot from the impact of Obi-Wan’s hand, the skin of his ass must have been. The fairness of his flesh their meant the abuse would stain purple and blue like the mottled smear of berry juice. But still, despite the stinging heat, the pain no longer registered, his skin gone numb against the beating.

Obi-Wan shifted minutely and rolled Anakin’s hips back so that he pressed tighter against his knee and changed the angle where his hand met flesh, swinging his hand into the fattier curve of his cheeks. He knew Obi-Wan, knew his master probably better than anyone, so he knew this slight change was his attempt at alleviating some of the pain, was him trying, no matter how futile or small in the face of impossibility, to make the situation and Anakin’s predicament some better.

And force how he loved his master, but as the change of weight being brought down against him caused his hips to roll and his cock to grind against the inner stretch of his thigh, he wanted to scream at him. His position, which was already the most humiliating moment of his entire life, somehow took on a new flavor of mortification.

The pain of his master’s hand beating against his ass, which stung like fire, tipped over some mental cliff and the pain still hurt, but that hurt burned different and deeper in the tick of a single moment. He squirmed; air caught in his lungs in a new kind of panic. He never knew pain could feel good, and yet achingly good it suddenly felt all the same, the numbing ache of it deep in his hips, the heat in his skin.

He realized, as he silenced a choked sound, that his cock was thickening between the space of his master’s thighs.

Obi-Wan continued on, oblivious to his blind panic and sudden heart stopping terror. He couldn’t get hard to this. After all these years of cramming his stupid karking feelings as deep and dark as he could make them—he couldn’t—

_—Oh_

_—force_

He bit as hard as he could manage into the meat of his bicep to keep from letting out the shaky moan clawing up his throat. The force of his master’s hand against his ass continued to rock him forward and he shuddered against it, his cock fully erect and pressing into his master’s leg. He burned—with humiliation—with a strange whited-out, buzzing euphoria—with pain that made him feel feverish with want, with searing pleasure.

“Harder,” D’thrin cut in.

Obi-Wan made a frustrated sound but the next hit of his hand drove Anakin nearly off of his lap and his arms gave out from where he clung at the grates below them, limbs shaking as if he’d been fighting in saber practice for hours. Obi-Wan hit him again and without his tight grip on the floor he rolled obscenely between his legs, cock dragging against thigh and he moaned then, high and breathless and barely heard, but he moaned all the same.

Obi-Wan reached down to grab a fistful of curls on the back of his head and yank his head up so that his back straightened back out from where he hung like a limp coil. A bolt of electric want surged through him at the pointed handling as his master still brought his hand down against his ass and he realized, far away and still red tinged with humiliation, that he was leaking precome against the linen pantleg of his master’s thigh like a pubescent padawan waking from a wet dream.

He squirmed minutely against the feeling, at the tightening pleasure deep in his gut and how good the pain against his ass felt, and how terribly much he wanted to rut against Obi-Wan’s leg like a mindless animal.

“Be still,” Obi-Wan muttered, squeezing the fistful of hair he held, pulling his head back further so that he scrabbled to wrap his arms around his master’s leg for balance against the arch. The motion only dug his hips further into leg and tears sprang to his eyes at the wave of pleasure it invoked.

Beyond the physical world, he clawed, sudden and panicked at the shields of Obi-Wan’s mind. This needed to stop—this had to stop now. But Obi-Wan, whatever the state of his own mind and emotions, was completely locked away in the remnants of their bond, blocked behind his own mental fortress and impenetrable in the force. He continued to desperately claw at those mental shields as he dug his flesh and durasteel fingers against Obi-Wan’s calf, panic continuing to racket higher as his pleasure climbed and climbed.

He continued to leak messy smears of sticky precome against his master’s thigh and the dampness of the fabric only increased the friction against his cock, deepened the pleasure of every rocking grind of his hips from every hit by Obi-Wan’s hand against his burning and bruised ass.

He didn’t know what to do, it seemed inevitable, his ever-climbing pleasure and pain spiraling his brain closer to the edge he felt ready to catapult over. Coming felt unstoppable at this point—but the reality he would have to face afterwards, facing his master after he came from him beating his naked ass in front of an entire slaver’s ring made him want to cry from abject humiliation at the thought.

But he didn’t know what else to do, didn’t know how to stop the gravity fall of him splayed out and leaking precome in his master’s lap, clenching against the rising urge to shudder his way through painful orgasm.

Sweat plastered his tunic to his back, ran down the inside of his pants and into his boots and ran in salty rivulets to blend perfectly with the tears leaking down his cheeks again. He felt ready to burst into flame, like a crashing ship through a planet’s atmosphere.

Obi-Wan seemed to sense some form of his distress and dropped the fistful of hair on the back of his head to put a reassuring open palm on the low of his back while he shifted the angle of the fall of his hand once again.

The new pain of Obi-Wan’s hand falling half on his ass and halfway onto the sensitive skin of his high thigh was all it took.

“ _Ahh!”_

He locked up tight and arched, letting himself finally grind his hips in that instinctual roll, pleasure furling from his tightened balls and into his jerking cock. He spilled with a punched-out gasp, hot come soaking the inseam of his master’s pantleg and dribbling to the druasteel grating with a humiliating wet splat.

He shook uncontrollably then and muffled a sob against his own shoulder, unable to look his master in the eyes.

He did glance up at a surprised sound and met D’thrin’s impressed gaze raking across his limp and sweat drenched body still draped across Obi-Wan’s spread knees.

“Oh you beautiful boy,” he said, “never have I seen a thing like you take it like t _hat._ ” He turned his attention from where Anakin shook to meet whatever expression his master gave back to him. His master, Anakin thought with burned out horror, who had his come running down his leg.

“I do think after all that we can certainly do business with your Lord.”

Obi-Wan, without missing a beat, pulled Anakin’s pants up and let him slide back to the grated floor, where he made the mistake of meeting the still kneeling Twi’lek’s eyes. She cocked her head slightly, but he could read nothing beyond that. But when he glanced over his shoulder, with tear wet eyelashes and his cheeks as red and ruddy as if caught in a sandstorm from Tatooine, Obi-Wan met his eyes with an expression as unreadable as the cosmic force itself.

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't actually a word for serve in Huttese, but Kava kavaa sava uba roughly translates to "how may I serve you?"
> 
> Will probably wind up writing a sequel to this one because uhh---there is so much more situational humiliation to wring out of Anakin lmao


End file.
